


all the pretty, pretty ones

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, M/M, Translation linked - Russian, kinkfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/pseuds/Jay%20Tryfanstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnkink_meme">spnkink_meme</a>,  original post <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/spnkink_meme/2728.html?thread=1853352#t1853352">here</a>.</p><p><b>Prompt:</b> Jensen tends to speed, he's got a sports car what else is it for, and he usually either sweet talks his way out of the ticket or just takes - no big, he's got the money for it. Unfortunately Cop!Jared is not having it and some how Jensen finds himself handcuffed and bent over the hood of his car.</p><p><b>Kinks:</b> dub-con, handcuffs, dirty talk, bareback, come play.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	all the pretty, pretty ones

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy Marilyn Manson.
> 
> The atmospheric, beautiful illustration is by a friend of [torkvenil](http://torkvenil.livejournal.com/)'s, Ailine. I thought it so fitting. There's a post about it [here](http://www.crossroad-blues.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=16&t=1848%20).
> 
>  

Jensen's got a new set of tires and a mountain road under them. A sixteen valve Alfa engine growling as only an Italian car can growl, like it's coming off the grid at Le Mans. Leather seats, a mahogany dashboard, a megabuck stereo singing sweet and low. He's got a California sunset in his mirrors, scent of pine and salt through the open windows, and he's going no where fast, wind in his hair, letting the day go running to the speed of the night. The Alfa pulls 150 top end, and Jensen's hit it at midnight on the Interstate, but here on the mountain roads he's pulling 70, 80, just under the ton. Here, he owns the road.

He's famous, fuck it, he's a star, he's entitled, and he lets the back end of the Alfa slide round the corners like a rally driver just to emphasize the point. Spray of gravel flying over the rails behind him, headlights burning down the road, Jensen's king of the world, and the flash of lights glancing over his rear view mirror only makes him laugh and gun the engine, because he and the Alfa, they're untouchable.

Red lights in his mirror.

Jensen's doing seventy round a blind corner, feet balancing the clutch, hand light on the stick shift, and fuck fuck fuck there's a cop on his tail. Startled, he lets the Alfa drift for a moment and it's not a car to ignore: it fishtails, and he has to hit the gas to pull straight and it's then he hears the siren wail.

It's not the first time he's been pulled over on the California roads and it won't be the last. And Jensen doesn't think of his unpaid parking tickets or his pending tax arraignment. Jensen thinks of flash bulbs and red carpets and his own face framed on screen. He's got a sharpie in the glove compartment for autographs and a couple of pictures from the sci-fi show he did four years ago, 'cos everyone's girlfriend thinks he was hot in that one. He was hot in that one. Smiling, Jensen lets the car drift to a halt on the side of the road, where there's just enough space to pull over on the gravel. 

On the driver's side, the canyon rises high above the car, California pines against the skyline. Passenger side, there's just space. Scrub and scree drop out from under his wheels four hundred feet down to the dry river bed.

There are rules for times like this, and Jensen knows them. He checks the window's wound down, puts his hands on the wheel where the cop behind can see them, and practices his company smile. He was an actor once, before he was a star, and he prepares to be dazzling with a tired resignation that shouldn't feel as familiar as it does.

He waits.

Flicks his eyes up at the rear view mirror, but he's looking right into the setting sun. Can't see much more than the deep cleft of the canyon behind him, black against the gold of the sunset. Jensen taps his fingers on the leather of the steering wheel and thinks of three different parties he could be on his way to, thinks of going home and ordering up a wrap, a few wraps, a girl, two girls - a private party for one. His time's worth serious money and it's wasting. The cop's fucking with him. His fingers are jittering on the wheel and he knows his knees are tensing, scar across his right calf he got from that Vancouver stunt gone wrong stiff and aching.

Nothing in the rear view mirror. It's not going well. In his head Jensen starts adding up cash: he's got four hundred dollars in his wallet, give or take a few singles, but he might have some blow in there left over from Steve's last party and that's bad news, DUI and possession. There just might be some cash left under the floor mat for emergency hook-ups and Jensen looks down to where the thing lies uneven but can't be sure, shifts his feet to shove at the corner but it's not moving, flexes his shoulders and reaches down -

"Come out of the car with your hands up."

Shock of it snaps his head back against the seat rest, that ugly amplified voice bellowed echoing along the road, shit, fuck, fuck.

"Come out of the car. Put your hands up." 

And Jensen does. Opens the door, fingers sweaty on the catch, levers his legs out. The Alfa's slung low to the ground, he has to duck, and cramped, pull himself out, stupid bow-legged gait he's always hated. Gets his hands up as soon as he can - 'Star found dead', he thinks, headlines unspooling, 'Mountain Tragedy,' 'He died too young,' with makes him smirk a little because Steve McQueen he ain't. Instead he stares at the canyon wall with his hands in the air and waits. Amusement's soon gone. He feels exposed and vulnerable like this. Shaky. Things like this don't happen to people like him.

"Turn round. Put your hands flat on the roof where I can see them."

 

  


 

Jensen does. Gravel shifts under his feet. He hasn't seen another vehicle in the last twenty minutes and there's no one to see if his knees are shaking.

"Stay there. Don't move."

The metal of the car is still sun-warmed under the cotton of his button-down, although the canyon's in shadow and the last of the sun is a sliver of red-gold in the corner of his eye. When the cop's door slams shut he twitches, can't help it. Crunch of grit sounds too loud in his ears, measured, deliberate, footsteps coming towards while all he can see is evening shadowed rock and scrub. Air smells of pine and maybe rain two days away. His back's starting to ache, the Alfa's not built to lean on, too low to the ground.

"Don't move." Voice like the snap of a rattlesnake out in the Texas sun, harsh and the drawl under it deep and vicious. Jensen's had a mind's eye image of some pissed-off overweight patrolman in puffed out leggings but the voice doesn't match. Voice says, fuck you, and that's the moment Jensen knows he's really in shit.

He tries. Turns his head to the side slow and easy, lets the guy see his profile just like it is on the billboards on Mulholland Drive, says, "Offi-"

"Shut up."

"Put your hands behind your back."

"Head down."

Snapped out so certain Jensen does and only thinks seconds later 'what the-' when it's already done. Metal comes round his wrists so fast, not at all like it is in the movies, snaps into place with a ratcheted click sharp as a clapperboard's fall. Incredulous, Jensen springs his hands apart and gains a whole two inches before the handcuffs bite deep. He feels his head rock back with the shock of it, open mouthed.

"What the-"

"I want you to talk, I'll tell you what to say. Don't move. I get real itchy fingers round people who move."

'Oh God,' Jensen thinks, 'He's got a gun.' He can see the image of it in his head, big black low-slung belt with a holster on it popped open, cop with a jumpy trigger finger. Goose bumps run the length of his spine and a shiver chases them down.

"Legs apart," the cop says and predictably, "Wider," as Jensen shuffles his loafers through the dirt and tries not to think about how he looks, splayed out and ridiculous. But it stings, the amused satisfaction in the cop's voice when he says, "Stay," and Jensen knows he will.

"I'ma gonna check your stuff," the cop says, and, God help him, the Texas in that voice stings like sunburn on the ranges, reminds Jensen of things he thought he'd left behind fifteen years ago.

Car window's open. In the corner of his eye, squinting, Jensen sees a black-gloved hand reach in and snap the driver's side visor down. His license is there. A photograph of some seriously hot B-movie actress, naked. It's not Jensen's bed, but the effect's the same. And... two hundred dollars he'd forgotten about, and Jensen can't help the catch of his breath because that just might be his get out of jail free card. 'Oh God,' he thinks. 'Take the money.'

But the wait goes on too long and Jensen clenches his bound hands, tries to roll his shoulders unobtrusively, his muscles tensed.

When it comes again there's amusement under the black tar of the voice. "Jensen Ackles," the cop says, slow and hot. "You're pretty famous. Dude." Little crunch of gravel sounds like he rocked back on his heels. "This for me, then? You want me to walk away?"

"There's four hundred-" 

"Stop." Short and sharp as the rattlesnake. Then slow again. "Boy. You tryin' to pay me off with six hundred greenbacks and a two-bit whore?"

Doesn't sound good, put like that, and Jensen's starting to think this shit's deeper than he can buy his way out of. Wonders how much it's gonna cost him to pay off the charges in court.

"You got the wrong guy, Ackles," the cop says. "This one, this time, we're goin' all the way. You think you're so pretty," he says, and Jensen closes his eyes because he's heard this before, too often before, and what happens next always hurts.

Then the cop says, "Get down on your knees," and if Jensen thought the voice was hard before there's a power to it now that crackles and burns, but he's not that guy in Texas anymore and he says, "No."

Which is fucking stupid and he knows it two seconds later.

"I don't think you heard me." This time, it's soft as silk, that voice, with the knife in it no less sharp for the tease, and the snap that follows it is the sound of a holster opening.

Jensen goes to his knees.

It's hard.

He's got no leverage, and with his hands cuffed behind his back his balance is shot. He has to lean one knee into the Alfa's side panel and let himself fall, lands down fast with his knees hitting the gravel, each individual stone a sharp-edged spark of pain.

"Now that's pretty," says the cop, low and amused, and oh fuck, Jensen's got this all wrong. Because that voice, it's got edges now that are nothing to do with courtrooms or speeding tickets and everything to do with sex. Jensen's pulse gives a startled leap in his wrists and his dick, his stupid, blind dick twitches in his pants like someone snapped a leash on it, Now is so not the time, but Jensen's dick thinks that voice is hot-wired to its starter motor, pulses and heats and starts to fill. Helpless, humiliated, Jensen feels the blood rush hot to his face. He's blushing.

"But, dude," the cop says, and yeah, he's laughing, fuck it, laughing at Jensen, hot TV actor on his knees in the dirt, dick stiff for a uniform. "You're facing the wrong way. Keep your eyes down," he warns, all lazy power that says, do it. So Jensen does. Shuffles himself round, painful, real slow - "Knees apart," he's warned - eyes on the ground. Stops lined up with a pair of black boots, leather spit-shined under the road dust, and that's a big pair of feet planted down heavy in front of his crotch.

"Keep your eyes down," cop says, and suddenly there's a gloved hand under Jensen's chin so big he can feel the thumb seam at the point of his jaw while three fingers curl up the other side of his face. Stiff glove, leather thick and supple and smelling of saddle soap.

"Boy, don't you even pretend you don't know jack shit about where we're going," the cop says, and through the buzzing in his ears Jensen hears the snap of an opened belt buckle and the rasp of a zip coming down. He's so fucked it's not true, his dick's hard as a telegraph pole and straining against his jeans, and the saliva's running thick and sour to his mouth. He can't, dammit, he won't swallow, not with the back edge of that hand hard up against his Adam's apple.

Little jerk of the glove against his skin, flex of muscle like the cop's pulled his dick out. Maybe got a hand on it, looking at Jensen's mouth, lazy anticipatory strokes because Jensen's a sure thing and the guy knows it. Planned it this way.

"You want some of this, boy?" the cop asks, like he knows what Jensen's thinking. "Got a fine big dick for you, just the way you need it." Says it like he knows, like he fucking knows the only reason Jensen's not got his tongue out panting is the death grip he's got on the rags of his pride. Jensen shuts his eyes on that thought for a moment, white light behind his eyelids where it's dusk outside, and it's a moment too long.

The cop's not gentle when he kicks his boots into Jensen's spread legs, holding him open, and jerks him forward with one finger and a thumb forced into the hollows of his jaw. Hurting, Jensen has to, fuck, he can't close his mouth, and he knows what that means.

"Eyes down," the cop warns, and slaps his dick against Jensen's face. He's thick and heavy and hard, Christ, he's hard, like this is really getting the guy off, and his dick feels big, too big, frightening big. Jensen's throat tightens just thinking about the meat of it forced into his mouth, but he's got no choice. He's going to be taking it whatever, hand on his jaw says so and isn't gonna take no for an answer, dick shoved down his throat, count himself lucky it's just a blowjob. 

"Do me real nice, baby," the cop says, "And I just might break out the lube. Open wide."

Smell of his dick, taste of it, head sweet and sour like it's the end of an eight-hour shift, but what hits Jensen hardest is the fucking size of it. Hard as a leather truncheon even if the skin of it's treacherous soft, and behind it, pressing in, every stone of weight the cop's got. Jensen opens for it, has to open for it, opens as wide as he can and it's still coming. He feels the ache start in his jaw and flinches, gets two leather-covered fingers shoved in his back teeth for encouragement and fuck, that's just the head of it and there's already tears in his eyes. Cop must know Jensen's struggling, but he's not stopping, rocking in measured, inching thrusts that don't care if Jensen's hurting, don't care that his breath is already rasping in his throat and there's scarcely enough space left in his mouth for his own tongue.

"Ah, fuck," the cop groans, and pushes in, pushes back so far Jensen rocks on his knees and realizes his head's hit the back of the car door and there's no where left to go. He can't move. It's then that, bastard, the cop rubs a gloved thumb over Jensen's flushed cheeks and says, "Jesus. Looks so pretty on you. Pink as a virgin." Voice so amused and hot Jensen tries, really tries, to spit out the dick in his mouth and it's then that he gets two knuckles jammed in the back of his jaw and oh fuck, fuck, five, six, seven inches of the thickest dick he's ever met shoved so far down his throat the thing goes right past his gag reflex like it doesn't exist. His nose is jammed into cloth, ripping smooth open zip and stiff uniform serge and he's choking. When the cop pulls back all Jensen can do is gasp for air, once, before the cop's slamming back into Jensen's mouth like he owns it. Hurts, hurts so good. Jensen's got tears coming out of his eyes, snot welling up in his nose and his throat's seizing raw: he's not sure if he's ever going to manage to talk again, and he's never been so turned on in his life. It's not even as if the cop's going to come any time soon, there's a frightening control over the way he fucks Jensen's mouth like the man could do this all night. Like it matters, like it's Jensen's mouth he wants and not some hole in the dark.

If he could, Jensen would whimper right about now, right when he realizes this ain't gonna be easy, ain't gonna be a two-minute ride he can brush off like the pretty boys he hooked up with years ago before the cameras got too near. Right where anyone can see him, Jensen Ackles, thighs forced apart, hands cuffed behind his back, is taking it big time from a cop with a really dirty mind and a seriously big dick and Jensen. Jensen wants it so bad he's humping the air and his hands are twisting in the cuffs like if he tries hard enough he's gonna get a hand on his own dick.

"Oh baby," the cop says, and his voice is so low and gentle Jensen shivers. "Oh, you want it, don't you? Need it so bad, my dick in you ... shh now," he says, like Jensen could say anything with a dick the size of a cucumber jammed down his throat. "Shh." He's got a hand on Jensen's throat, leather supple and smooth, and he's not moving an inch. Got his dick right down as far as Jensen can take it and an inch or two further, no where else to go, and Jensen's got no breath to spare. The cop's gloved fingers chase the line of his own dick down Jensen's throat, gentle, but the knuckles thrust in Jensen's jaw aren't going anywhere and the hurt of it burns. No air, there's no air, and Jensen has to swallow against the pre-come and saliva dripping down what's left of the back of his throat. Can't. Does, has to, and feels his throat muscles compress sweet round the dick in his throat and feels, oh fuck, feels the thing pulse and throb in response. For a moment, spots in front of his eyes, Jensen thinks he's gonna die like this, choked to death on the biggest dick he's ever seen outside serious hardcore. Then it's gone, the hands are gone, and he's so wrecked he feels himself fall forward and can't stop. He's panting, his throat rasped out, his face wet with tears and snot and maybe some pre-come as well. 

When he hits a thigh like a tree trunk before he hits the ground he's stupidly, crazily grateful for the support.

"Christ," the cop says, almost reverent, like Jensen's done something good, and for a moment his hands are so gentle on Jensen's hair it's like he actually cares. Then, easy as lifting a sack of flour, he reaches down and pulls. Jensen's got nothing left to fight with, kicks out weakly into nothing but air, tugs at the cuffs, wrists starting to bruise, but he's going no where but where the cop wants him. Which is slammed face down over the hood of his own car. He can feel the suspension rock and waxed metal slides under his face. There's no grip to it, nothing to fight against, and Jensen can only squirm as his shirt's ripped open and pulled down, as his jeans are dragged off his hips. He can see where this is going, kicks out again, denim tangled round his knees, and hits flesh this time. But the flash of triumph he feels at the cop's pained grunt flares into fear, because in seconds there's a hand on his throat again tight as a vise that only just leaves him enough space to try and force his lungs open. When he breathes, the air burns past his fucked-out throat.

"You lie there and take what I've got for you, boy, and I've got a hand free for lube," the cop says, fierce and intimate, right into Jensen's ear. His breath smells of coffee and candy. "Or you fight and I'll do it dry, and that's gonna hurt you hell of a lot more than it's gonna hurt me."

Jensen's shaking his head, shivering again, although the blood in his traitor of a dick is beating so emphatic a counterpoint to his pulse he's surprised the cop can't actually hear.

"Fuck you," the cop says, and Jensen tries to pull away, to roll, to get his hobbled feet under him at least, wriggling like a maggot under the grip of one hand. It's the rasp of a belt pulled out that makes him try and lash out again: he knows that sound. He braces for pain and gets it, a single burning snap of leather belt across his ass that stings like this guy's had practice. Pain of it shocks him still for a second.

"That works," grunts the cop, and runs a hand over the welt that's almost tender. Still hurts.

"Want another?"

Jensen doesn't. It takes his head places he doesn't want it to be. But he gets one anyway, laid so beautifully counter edge to edge he's got a moment to admire the precision before the pain kicks in. This time he yelps, convulses, because this stroke, feels like it takes his breath and half his skin with it when the belt lifts.

When he's back with himself there's a hand on the back of his neck holding him down and two fingers shoved in his ass, gloved, leather wet with lube and stiff. Fuck, it's been years: his body's tight and it hurts, too much too soon. He can feel the muscles at the rim of his asshole spasm helplessly, burning with the stretch, knows it's only going to get worse, and yet his dick thinks it's a good pain even if the rest of him wants to curl up helpless round the sting of it. Cop waits him out, patient, not moving, and it's only when Jensen's beached up and panting that he moves. Short, sharp jabs of his fingers, not quite enough lube to be slick, not so little the ride's on the wrong side of painful. 

Not enough, too much, Jensen can't decide. His body pushes back without his permission, opens itself up, wants like it doesn't know what's at stake: in his head Jensen can see himself begging for a stranger's dick like any back-alley slut and flinches. He's got his jeans round his ankles, his ass in the air, his mouth's got to be bruised and swollen. Must look like someone's whore, and yet his dick - oh God, his dick's so damn hard he could lift weights with it, head of it rolling over the Alfa's hood with every thrust, leaking come on the bodywork so obvious the cop would have to be blind not to notice. Jensen shivers and arches his back and thinks, thinks for just a moment, of a gloved hand giving him a reach around. Two hard strokes and he'd come, he knows it. His balls are tight against his body, his stomach's cramping, he's shaking. When the fingers pull out he almost whines and tastes blood copper-hot when he bites down hard to stop the betraying whimper.

But he does scream when the the cop's dick punches home. Christ, it's a fucking tree trunk jammed up his ass, bigger by far than anything else, fingers, toy, long ago boy-dick Jensen's ever taken before. So big Jensen can hardly feel his ass spasm and clamp down through the white-hot pain of it. It hurts, hurts: he's curled himself up against the pain of it without realizing, trying to crawl up the hood on his shoulders and knees. But he's not getting anywhere against the grip of hands on his hips that's so fierce he's going to have bruises tomorrow. Bruises into next month, Jensen thinks, and then realizes he can think. The dick stuffed up his backside isn't moving, and the pain's almost bearable. Until the cop moves again, one lazy extra inch that pushes further inside, then another, a gentle inexorable rocking thrust that isn't ever gonna take no for an answer. The cop's got Jensen's hips held up at the perfect angle for the stroke of his dick, and he's strong enough to hold Jensen's weight in place despite the way his knees skid on the paintwork. Jensen's hips, held, tilt up like there's more space inside him than he knew he had, like every inch of that fat dick's going to shove itself inside and make a home for itself. Feels like he's being pried open, the way the cop pushes down half-inch at a time, feels like he's nothing but a yielding, flinching hole. Eager hole.

Because, yeah, Jensen wants. He's gone beyond shame. His hips are moving, rolling up into each thrust, begging, a shimmy to them Jensen didn't even know he could make that says, fuck me, harder, more. Now, Jensen's body says, shaking and shameless, but it's not happening. He's not getting more than an extra half-inch with every thrust, too slow, and Jensen hears himself whine and behind him the cop gives a choked-off grunt that's almost a laugh. Hand pets down his spine, so gentle against his sensitized skin it almost hurts, and Jensen arches up into touch so plain he could have his hips cocked on a street-corner stance.

"Babe," the cop says, all sweet cracked-out Texas vowels like he's got everything he's ever wanted, cock still steady as a metronome counting beats right inside Jensen's skin. Like he could do this all night. "Babe, whoever you're screwing, you oughta have words. You're not getting what you need at home," he says, "if you want my big fat dick this bad. Gonna come for me, babe?" he says, and damn, that's triumph bleeding through the growl in his voice. "Gonna come on my cock? Want it that bad?" 

And Jensen, whimpering, gets a glimpse of his orgasm coming up after him like a freight train and screams. It hits like forty tons of sparking steel, body, dick fucking heaving with the force of it, come spat out over the hood, his knees, his chest, dripping off his chin. Sends him somewhere near heaven and a hell of a long way from anything he'd ever trained himself to want. He's never, fuck, he's never come like this in his life before, whored out and helpless with a stranger's dick so far up his ass feels like it's never gonna come out and not even a finger touching his own skin. He's heaving for breath, gasping for it, legs limp, sweat running off his skin, and he's being fucked through the aftershocks like the cop can't even feel the way his muscles contract time after time. He's loose now, warmed, and his body's shaped itself round the cop's dick like they're meant to be together.

Doesn't feel like any fuck he's ever had before.

Blood-hot, that dick. Just a little shiver between flesh and flesh, not as smooth as it should be. More real.

Cop's riding him bare.

"-Jesus fuck,-" Jensen says, tries to say, throat's rasped out. "Condom!" he cracks out, trying to pull away.

When he stops, the bastard cop doesn't stop out but in, and his dick's pulsing in Jensen's ass, so big Jensen could swear he can feel every vein of it. "Wondered when you'd notice," he says. "I know you're clean," he says, and that sends a shiver through Jensen's skin because that, that means it might have been him, Jensen, this cop was waiting for, not just any pretty boy driving fast and stupid on a road where no cop should be. "Course," he says. "You don't know nothing about me," he says, and moves again, experimental shifting thrusts like he's looking for something with his dick. "Teach you ... not to ... beg for just ... anyone's dick," he says, and stops for a moment again as if he knows something Jensen doesn't.

"Didn't-" Jensen starts and then, Christ, cop nails him good with a thrust that hits something inside him that fucking explodes, pleasure so shining it's pain, toes curling in his loafers, hands fighting the cuffs.

"What-"

Jerk does it again, and Jensen's got nothing left but a wail.

"Got you bareback, babe. Gonna fill you up with my come, mark you real good, push it all up inside of you. You're gonna be leaking in a week's time, baby, ass still sore, smell of me deep in your skin. Gonna have my come dripping down your thighs when you drive home, wake up this morning sore and sticky with it-"

Jensen's dead. He can't come, he's spent, but his stupid sore dick's twitching with every spot-on thrust and the cop's got a hand on him now, thumb right up hard against the nerves under the crown of his dick, right where it works so good. 

"Gonna come for me twice?" the cop asks, but it's not amused, it's fierce like he could force Jensen over the edge, and Jensen can tell the guy's close himself. Strokes of his dick come shorter and faster and his hands are slipping with sweat, his voice is short and sharp like he's finding it hard to think. He's thrusting so hard the Alfa's suspension flexes with the force of it, and Jensen's sliding up the hood and back with the each stroke. Jensen should be making plans right now, should be thinking about running, but his dick's painfully hard and it feels like he's going to come again. Far too quickly. So quickly he can't, he'll come dry like a girl, painful, cramping, hurting - and fuck he does come. Tiny spurt of come like his dick's giving up the ghost, orgasm rolling through every nerve in his body like the force of it's got everywhere to go but his dick. 

"Shit-" the cop says, like he can't believe it, and then he's powering into, through Jensen's body, like it's the end of the world, hard and fast, and when he comes it's so hot Jensen can almost feel the man's dick shoot inside him. Heat of it slicks up Jensen's belly from the inside, filling him up. Cop doesn't even try and keep himself upright, falls forward flat out, smashing Jensen back down against the metal. Must be fourteen stones of toned muscle pressing Jensen down and he can feel every sweating inch of it, rough cotton uniform shirt and pants harsh against his skin. For a moment, he and the cop, they pant in unison, uneasy, chests pressed together, joined. Cop's dick's happy, twitching away to itself in Jensen's hole, come starting to ooze out on Jensen's skin sticky wet.

The Alpha dips when the cop levers himself up, sway of the suspension tipping Jensen down the hood. Popping out with an obscene squelch, the cop's dick leaves him hollowed out and empty, puppet-limp. Jensen can't summon up the energy to even try and move, fucked out, wet with sweat, come still hot in his ass and leaking down over his balls. He's almost too tired to protest, only manages a whimper, when the cop's big hands spread his thighs wider and a broad thumb swipes up the crack of his ass. Christ, he's sore: the touch is as sharp as a knife against his abused asshole, despite the gentleness of the stroke of it. From the feel Jensen guess his hole's got to be swollen, pinked, oozing come, and even if he tightens his muscles he can't stop the slow sticky flow. He knows the cop's watching. Knows it for sure when the thumb starts pushing in, sweeping rhythm that means ... Christ, means he's pushing his own come back inside, like he wants to keep Jensen open and slicked.

A pair of fingers swap up with the thumb, tap round the edges of his asshole, a slow considered drum-beat of sensation. Jensen's so wet he can feel the breeze that's pleasantly cool on his back chill against his sticky balls, his stretched thighs. He's so loose he can barely feel any resistance against the single gloved finger the cop taps inside, but when the second follows he does whimper. It's too soon, he fucking hurts, he's got nothing left. Knuckles flex against his skin, thumb rolling slip-press against the rim of his asshole, meditative, and Jensen wakes up and smells the roses. "No," he says, throat still so raw the word comes out cracked. "No. I can't. Don't. Please."

"Babe, I think you could," the cop says, almost regretful, but he pulls his fingers back. And Jensen, Jensen's body curls up after them like it's fucking lonely, like it really would take a fist for him. Shamed, Jensen can feel a rush of come hot dripping out of his ass after the fingers, humiliating, but the cop just laughs and runs his thumb up the sticky trail.

"Here," he says, and pulls Jensen down over the hood so his knees hit the gravel again. "You worked for it. You earned this." He rubs his thumb under Jensen's nose before he lets Jensen suck the come off his gloves, smell of it acrid and sweet. Jensen knows he'll be smelling what it felt like to be owned every mile of the drive home. Mouths the cop's gloved fingers, thumb, taste of leather and spunk on his tongue. Too tired to even care that he wants it, he wants his mouth to taste of someone else's come, and when the fingers slide free he groans. 

Cop doesn't say anything. Watches him for a couple more minutes, maybe more, while Jensen breathes against the hood of his own car and tries not to think of how empty he feels. Then the cop moves again - Jensen hears the gravel shift under his boots - and touches Jensen's hands. Closes his fingers over something small and sharp.

Handcuff key.

"If you're still here in twenty minutes," he says, "I'm taking you home."

For the first time, Jensen hears hesitation in that voice, like the man said something he didn't know he was going to say. Something real.

He clenches his hand on the key.

When the cop leaves it takes Jensen real effort to turn his head and watch, and even then, ambushed by night when he can't even remember evening, most all he can see is the way the man walks. He's big. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, gleam of leather from his boots, nothing identifiable. Then - then he runs his fingers over his head like hes got one of those college-boy fringes, Jensen's cop, despite the regulation crew cut. Lets his thumb rub at the back of his neck.

Jensen thinks, slow burn of recognition coming too late as the car door slams and the car peels away, Jensen thinks, "I know you."

Wonders if he'll still be here when the man comes back. 

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  _all the pretty, pretty ones_ has been translated into Russian by Torkenvil - you'll find it [here](http://www.crossroad-blues.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=16&t=1848).  
>  Please consider feedback to the translator.


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